Poems

Words I’d like to call art.

Cheries

turns out you weren’t my other half

neither was I yours

turns out we are fuller people 

hearts hoarded with love 

my love for life have surpass ours

because i’ve known life my whole life

and you, my whole eight months

your love for your creations pushed me out the equation

our love hangs in the air every step we take

our love is a post it note we hang on the fridge

its cherries on cakes

I don’t like calling my art poems though much might say so, I never think that my silly little writings are ever good enough to be called “art” I always thought that, that would make actual poets felt invalidated. But if art is whatever the artist thinks is, then I’d like to think that this is art.

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